Through a Glass, Darkly
by Sarapsys
Summary: Sequel to Sins of the Father.  Near turns forty, and has grown up in some ways.
1. Part 1

**Sequel to Sins of the Father and Aftermath (which I know isn't quite done yet, but still stands well enough to bridge to this one I think). I've been poking and prodding away at this ever since I was working on SotF and I'm sick of looking at it. So here it is. Title reference is from 1 Corinthians 13:11-12.**

* * *

><p><em>"You're doing it again. Calling me a child."<em>

_"When you get to be my age, Near, everyone looks like a child. I may break myself of the habit by the time you get to be forty or so."_

_"Forty? That seems excessive."_

_"Yes, well. I fully intend to be around a long while yet, nagging you to eat your breakfast and remember your hat when you go out in the cold."_

_"...I suppose…I can tolerate that. If I must."_

**Part 1**

_New Year's Day, 2031_

"L, are you ready?"

Near blinks slowly, once, twice. The city is dirty grey, the dark streaks of skyscrapers barely distinguishable to his bare eyes from the streaks of rain on the tinted floor-to-ceiling window. The slotted-cube stacks of buildings might as well be cast from the same stuff as the sky, the lit windows that spangle the black nights now powerless and barely noticeable in the face of the persistent dull drizzle.

He has been spending a lot of time in the last week while not reviewing Tesla's work on their current case or visiting the hospital sitting here at the window, staring down at the alternately rainy and snowy city and thinking. Perhaps sitting and thinking is all he really has, when he sets the mask of L aside. Perhaps it is a normal part of grief. Perhaps it is just part of starting to grow old, though Near thinks he probably started growing old long before he was even an adult.

"Yes," he says finally, turning the motorized chair with the tap of a finger, and whirring across the room to meet Gevanni at the elevator. The older man, who has been serving as Watari since Near convinced Roger (turning the tables and badgering _him_ to consider _his_ health for once) to retire several years back, knows to stand back and let him press the buttons himself. As much as he hated having to take care of such mundane things before he landed himself in the chair, it irritates him when people move to assist him now. The irony is not lost on him that he is probably a good deal more self-sufficient as a rapidly-aging paralytic than he ever was as a fully able young man. He doesn't even require assistance to maneuver himself into the vehicle, though of course the current strong-arm that holds Gevanni's old job has to put the chair into the back.

The hospital is becoming almost as familiar as his headquarters, as they've been coming every day for nearly a month. Near is frankly amazed that the old man has held out this long, promises or no promises.

Tesla has accompanied him to the hospital a few times, but not today. He expects she might be angry when she finds out why he left her at HQ on this particular day, but he doesn't much care.

Near doesn't cater to his emotions very often, but today is the New Year. He thinks he can make an exception.

_September 2030_

The first day Tesla meets him in person, she asks about the chair.

And that, he thinks, is a good example of why he chose her. Most of the very few people who have both met him since the accident and know he is L have been thrown off by the chair, and so Near has come to expect it. The hastily concealed surprise, the sneaky but persistent examination of his face as they realize it's younger than what they expect from the color of his hair, and try to figure out just how old he is. Then, once they've determined he's not old enough to need the chair due to age alone, the uneasy curiosity and awkwardness under the social stigma against simply asking the obvious question.

It's somewhat amusing to him that people actually seem more taken aback that L is a cripple than they ever were to find that N was a child. If he is completely honest, it must be admitted that he also finds a certain vindictive pleasure in watching others struggle with the social obligations that he usually gets criticized for ignoring.

Well, Roger has always said he has a twisted sense of humor.

"So what happened to you?" the young woman says bluntly the minute Gevanni leaves them.

Her back is to him, where she is crouched down on the paper-covered floor, adding some illegible notation to the strange swooping diagram she is working on. (It was expensive, all that paper—hardly anyone uses it anymore. Of course, L can afford to be eccentric.) He's already got her working on her first case. After all, _he_ was expected to dive right in on day one, so Near doesn't see why his successor should need any time to acclimate to her new situation. No introductory pleasantries, just new rolls of paper and a new block of wood and calligraphy ink and whittling knives and a new case to solve.

"Florence happened," Near answers simply.

He is not used to it, having another person _there_ and _speaking to him _while he's watching security footage, but Tesla is as abrupt and necessary in her communications as he himself was at her age. That's part of why he chose her. He thinks he understands Roger better now, after having made the choice of his successor—it really did have less to do with grades, and more to do with the fact that he found the person suitable. Part of him wishes there was a way to let Mello know too, but he's learnt not to dwell on it.

And it was time anyway. Too soon it will be the New Year, and he'll be turning forty.

"Who is Florence?"

"Florence is not a person. It was a case."

Tesla frowns a little; she dislikes being wrong. She really is so much like he was. It almost makes him nostalgic. The swirl she is drawing straightens and halts sharply. She wants him to get to the point.

The point (in Near's mind) is much more complex than the blow-by-blow account of the accident that rendered him partially paralyzed, however, and so instead of elaborating he gives her two paper books to read. She's going to be L; she ought to be able to come to her own conclusions without him explaining everything.

The first book is by a man named Mello, and details the account of one of L's messiest cases—a successor gone mad and out on the rampage, caught only after it didn't truly matter anymore. The second is by Near and relates the story of his self-described failure in the case of a kidnapping-turned-murder in Florence, Italy.

While reading them, Tesla wonders if she will someday be expected to produce a narrative of her own mistakes, as a warning to _her_ successor. She hates the idea that she'd need to.

_July 2030_

"Tesla," Near says with certainty.

He's glanced at the grades and the numbers and official reports, but most of his inquiry has been devoted to going over security camera footage of the House, reading essays and incident reports, interrogating the current manager of the school on the day-to-day goings-on Inside. One advantage he has over the first L in this matter, at least, is that he grew up in the House when it was The House and not just another orphanage, and he knows firsthand that the official reports are worth exactly nothing.

"T?" Gevanni repeats, frowning. He's looking at the official reports. Near entertains a brief mental image of snatching the tablet out of the man's hands and tossing it over his shoulder as though to say _to hell with the numbers_. He knows very well he can't reach from the chair, though, and he'd rather not look like an ass so he simply affirms,

"Yes."

Gevanni is skeptical, unimpressed. "She's only number four in the rankings."

"Number one would rather go into politics and number three is a borderline sociopath."

"Well, what about number two, Everly? He seems stable enough."

Near shrugs dismissively. "I don't like him."

"L," Gevanni starts, in a tone he usually reserves for times that Near is suggesting they kidnap a witness or something similar.

"I am not going to waste my time dealing with someone I can't stand just because they scored five points higher on a logic test."

"You haven't even met him," Gevanni points out a little too patiently.

"Nor have you. I've watched months of video footage and I've seen how he writes. He whines almost constantly. I choose Tesla and that's final," the third L says calmly, returning the majority of his attention to the black walnut hare he's spent the last three days whittling. It's almost finished, but he has yet to put the final touches on its large, gangly feet.

She's on the tall side for her age, it seems from the videos, lanky and skinny and a bit all over the place in terms of limbs and velocity, and with a frazzle of dark hair that doesn't exactly match the rest of her, like a poorly fitted wig. Overall Tesla strikes Near as a queer mixture of disruptive and reticent, awkward and articulate.

Near doesn't particularly like working with others, but he's getting older, and the last thing he wants is another fiasco like that which marked the last transfer of L's title. He thinks he could learn to work with Tesla. Or, more accurately, he thinks he could train her to work with him. She seems to have the same need to _see_ things with her odd drawings and diagrams, not unlike his toys and models. He dislikes the idea of her getting ink everywhere, which she seems to do, but they'll just have to set boundaries.

If nothing else at least she doesn't whinge on and on like Everly.

"Roger, what do you think?" Gevanni attempts. "Shouldn't this process be a little less…arbitrary?"

The retired Watari, up to this point staying out comfortably of the argument in the safety of his favorite chair, flips down the top of his newspaper and eyes Gevanni testily for a moment before shooting a wry look at Near. "He's L and he has to be able to work with whomever he picks. He's entitled to an arbitrary opinion," Roger wheezes, flipping the newspaper back up.

Near smiles privately to himself, gazing down at the little wooden hare, but it's a sad smile. The old man's ironic commentary has not diminished, but the rasp in his breath is getting audibly worse. There's not much left of him but that dry not-quite-humor, unspoken but determined devotion, and the tweed husk that gives his frail body shape in his recliner.

It's definitely time to find a successor.

"Very well, L," Gevanni says. He's gotten quite good at hiding his resignation. Near assumes rather than actually seeing Roger's smirk, hidden as he is behind the newspaper. "How soon shall I have the House informed?"

"Now is fine," Near says, shaving away a hair-fine sliver of wood.


	2. Part 2

**Part 2**

_November 2030_

"I would rather there be blood on my hands as a result of my actions," Tesla reads aloud, slouched against the doorway holding the grey book up to her gaze by one corner, "than because I failed to act at all."

She looks sidelong at him. "Pithy."

Tesla clearly expects some reply of retort or defense, but Near's attention is already split between the praying mantis slowly taking shape under his whittling knife and the security footage from his current case.

Anyway, he doesn't have a response. Near wouldn't have had her brought to his headquarters if he wasn't willing to teach her, but he wants her to seek out answers on her own initiative. Everything he wanted to say about Florence is in that book, and that's enough to set her on track. If Tesla wants to know more about the accident itself, she's just going to have to ask the right questions. It's true that this isn't a case per se, but he's interested to see how she goes about trying to pry the story out of him. Watch her thought process in action. Try to figure out how best to work with his new apprentice.

He's reaffirmed in his choice of heir when instead of waiting or getting frustrated as it becomes apparent Near's not going to reply Tesla asks instead, "What do you think you should have done?"

"Taken the suspect into custody," Near says without hesitation, one eye still on the TV screens.

"You didn't have the evidence to do so," his protégé points out flatly.

"Perhaps not, but I had a hunch, and we had the opportunity, even if technically it was illegal. Once he was in custody, retrieving the victims should have been relatively easy."

"You were trying to make a clean case of it," Tesla argues. She's getting mad. Somehow her hair seems knottier when she's upset. Near understands her anger, understands the feeling of unfairness far too well, but he's been around long enough by now to know that it doesn't accomplish anything to get mad about it.

"The integrity of the case must be balanced against other potential losses. Ultimately, the result is what matters. Crafting apologies for offended parties is far easier than knowing that you could have averted tragedy and failed to do so out of pride. If you want to win, you first have to define what you mean by winning." Near frowns a little in concentration on a very delicate cut. "Proving who kidnapped two children _after_ he has given up on the ransom and killed them is not winning."

"…I see."

Near finally looks up. Tesla has sprawled on her back, holding the book aloft in front of her face with one hand and twirling a calligraphy pen in the other. Her scowl is quickly schooled into a mask of cool neutrality the moment she realizes his gaze is on her.

"I just always assumed L had more control over things," she says in a measured tone.

If he were given to such things, Near would chuckle at that. "Control is a lie. There will always be more factors than you can possibly account for—there's always that .0001% or more. The trick is convincing your opponent that they are in control and your allies that _you_ are in control without believing it yourself."

"Hmph." Tesla clearly hates the idea. He supposes he would have too at that age.

Brooding silence reigns as the mantid's head takes clearer shape under his knife. His protégé breaks it suddenly.

"So why Florence? Why didn't you write about the Kira case?"

His hand stills. He'd considered it, actually, but for some reason it had seemed far too…personal.

"No point in writing the same story twice," Near settles on, returning to his task.

His protégé lets her arms and the book drop to her sides with a thunk, tilting her head to peer quizzically at him upside-down. "Are the House stories true?"

"Which ones?" he asks, sighing a little. This little conversation is growing somewhat tiresome, but he's promised Roger he'll be patient. And really, he started it, obliquely, by giving her the books in the first place. There were stories when he was a child at the House too, stories about L, and stories about A and B and ghosts. More often than not they were too obviously stretched and embroidered far past the realm of likely fact. It doesn't surprise him that there would be ghost stories now about the Kira case among the students who had not been around to witness the history of the matter.

Tesla seems a little embarrassed. "Well, they were obviously metaphorical and not _literal_," she's hasty to temporize. "Solar used to tell us stories about the House, but she always tried too hard to turn them into 'legends'."

"…Hm," Near says neutrally, quite understanding the distaste in her voice and not really sure he wants to hear just how elaborately the students have decorated his own story.

Taking this as encouragement, Tesla goes on, "Well, anyway, the dragon story was supposedly about Kira and two brothers."

"Oh?" She's watching him very closely now, hoping for some reaction. Wondering if she's on the right track. Taking the question from a different angle, and Near sees exactly where she's heading with this now. Well, she _is_ on the right track, so he might as well accept the bait. "Go on."

"In her story, there's this king with twin sons." Rolling up into a sitting position, Tesla props her chin in her hand and starts doodling on the paper in front of her. "L, presumably. The king refuses to split up the kingdom between his kids and so they fight over who will take the crown. While they're still bickering about it, the king is killed by this dragon. Representing Kira." Tesla glances over, hoping for feedback. Near reluctantly looks up from his carving to examine the illustration taking shape under her pen.

"Hmph. And then?"

"The twins agree that whoever slays the dragon gets to be king. So they go out and are fighting this dragon—it was just waiting around for them, I guess—" Tesla snorted. "And one of them notices a weakness in its armor. He goes to stab it—I think it was under the wing or something like that— but the dragon sees and is about to smash him with its tail before he can do it. The other guy realizes his twin about to get killed, so he attacks the dragon head-on to distract it. _He _gets fried, as the first brother kills the dragon and inherits the title." She pauses, then finishes ironically, "The End."

_Mello would hate it_, Near thinks dryly, and he doesn't care too much for it himself. Settling back a little into the motorized chair, he tries to stretch his legs and takes some comfort in the frustration that he can't.

"So how much of it is true? Beyond the veneer of royalty and mythical creatures?" Tesla wonders out loud, chewing on the end of her pen and staring down at the scene she's sketched. When he doesn't answer immediately, she presses, "The sacrifice motif fits the Florence case."

Near considers for a moment. "I doubt Mello was _intentionally_ helping me," he says, and adds for his old rival's sake, "and we weren't actually brothers."

_Spring, 2015_

It would not have been accurate to say he had completely forgotten the motorcycle.

Near forgot very few things. Even details judged irrelevant at the time of observation got filed away in the shelves and drawers of his mind, to be dusted off and examined later as necessary. He was aware that the motorcycle was still there in secured storage, down in the sub-basement of his headquarters, along with everything else that had belonged to Mello.

Near had been in something of a state when they'd gathered Mello's belongings, exhausted at the end of the case and unsure of what the future held for him now that it was over, and so terribly, terribly angry—angry at Mello, for promising to wait instead of abandoning him again and then throwing his life away, leaving Near behind for good—angry at himself for trusting in a promise that he had no reason to trust in except that he wanted to believe it. Angry at himself for standing by, paralyzed in complacency, and allowing Mello to die. He'd read Mello's book about the BB case over and over again, the first time almost certain he'd find some apology, some explanation or justification, even an insult or a last slap in the face, but there was nothing, really, no matter how he stretched his rival's words.

Still, even if none of it was anything he wanted to hear, it was the last communication that Mello had left him, and he had been so wrapped up in the book that he had given little thought to everything else after ordering Rester to have it all put in safe storage.

When they got back from Florence and he went down to rummage through Mello's old things, he wasn't looking for the motorcycle in particular. He wasn't really sure what he was looking for, except perhaps…inspiration.

The fallout of the Florence case had just been too similar to the bungled mess of the Kira case, too damn similar, and he was angry with himself again. Those two little girls shouldn't have died. If he had acted more aggressively on what he _did_ have, instead of sitting back to observe how things unfolded—

(Unfolded, hah! Exploded in his face was more accurate)

—and even though Roger assured him time and time again that missing Mello and needing him to be the complete package of L were not remotely the same, Near still couldn't help but feel that Mello would have done something. Mello would have galvanized him to act, or taken matters into his own hands.

The book did nothing to make him feel better—it never did, he always felt as though it ought to because it was Mello's last message, the one thing his estranged brother had left for him—but it just exacerbated his frustration with L and the unfairness of the world in general. Because he'd done exactly as L might have, waiting to see all the pieces on the board before ending the game, and that had been the wrong move. But instead of being killed for his mistakes, as L had, children had died in his place.

Waiting to see everything was all well and good for games, but Near was sick and tired of people dying because of it, and he was more convinced than ever that Mello would not have let it happen.

While on the plane to New York (reading the stupid book again, even though he hated it, and the seeds of an idea that he ought to write his own book so that if he ever had a successor they wouldn't have to learn his lessons the hard way forming in the back of his mind) it had suddenly occurred to him that the book was _not_ the only thing Mello had left behind, if perhaps not by intent.

And so before even eating or sleeping, Near had gone down to storage in the empty, stupid, irrational hope that somehow in the flotsam Mello had left behind he might find some magical solution to his frustrations.

And there it was.

It was dusty, having been sitting unused in a dark storage room for the last five years, but the streaks left by his fingers where he traced the contours of the gas tank and the leather seat were dark and glossy, deep red and black. Near had never ridden a motorcycle before—nor any other sort of bike, actually—and he couldn't tell by looking at it if it would still run. It would need fuel, he assumed, and he had a vague notion that things like oil and other fluids might be necessary. Certainly it needed a good cleaning. It wasn't rusted at all, however, and there was no visible damage.

Near grasped one handlebar lightly in his hand. It was textured for an easy grip, but it was just reinforced rubber and plastic and aluminum. Like a toy. That's all it really was, Near thought, a really, really big toy. The sleek chassis even reminded him a little of the robots he had played with as a child.

All of the regret in the world wasn't going to bring Mello back. Whether he liked it or not, Near found himself thinking, if he wanted to be the L they would have been together and prevent another Florence, it fell to him to make it that way.

His apprehension and doubt at the mental image of himself careening around on this raucous thing of fire and metal cemented the impulsive thought that sprang to his mind. Taking risks was the whole point, wasn't it? It was the one thing he could never bring himself to do, the thing that was his greatest weakness as L, his inability to step out on a limb and throw his certainty into a hunch.

"Aren't you a little old for teenage rebellion?" Roger asked from behind his newspaper when Near informed him of his intent to have the bike restored and learn to ride it. "You're certainly a bit early for a midlife crisis."

Roger disliked the idea from the start, but Near was stubborn and ignored his weak protests, and they quickly subsided. Near didn't hear anything more on the subject from him until six months later, lying in a hospital bed while the old man who had raised him shouted about _idiotic recklessness _and _how dare you_ and _how do you think I would have felt if you were killed _until he was hoarse.


	3. Part 3

**Part 3**

_November 2030_

"What I don't understand," Tesla says one morning, without preamble, "is why you kept the bike after the accident. Why did you need another reminder?"

Near smiles. It took even less time than he expected for her to find it, collecting dust in the sub-basement where he'd put it back in storage all those years ago. "It wasn't mine to throw away."

There's a flat beat as she raises her brows skeptically. "It was ok for you to wreck it, but not throw it away?"

"I'm certain Mello would have been very pleased to know I nearly killed myself on his bike," Near says dryly, peering at her over his reading glasses (a gesture which resembles old Roger startlingly, in Tesla's eyes).

"What was the extent of the damage?"

"When the motorbike struck the rail," (_the_ motorbike, not _his_ motorbike, because Near always considered it to be Mello's), "the impact shattered my left leg and pelvis, severing the left sciatic nerve and damaging the right."

"So you are paralyzed from the knees down."

"That is correct," Near says, frowning more out of concentration as he whittles out the delicate spines on the leg of the praying mantis than because of the subject of their conversation.

"There's surgery for that, you know. They can use your own stem cells to rebuild the nerves."

"I know," Near says disinterestedly.

Tesla hmph's irritably. She thinks it's idiotic, he can tell from the stiffness of her silence.

_December 2030_

"I'm going bald before my time because of you," Roger has teased him on the very rare occasions when he is remotely affectionate, and Near wonders how soon it will be before he starts losing his own. He's feeling a little more empathy at the moment for how Roger must have felt after the motorcycle accident. It was the first and last time the old man had ever shouted at him, absolutely beside himself with rage and worry.

These concerns had not much bothered Near at the time because he had been sky-high on pain, morphine, and the giddy knowledge that he'd made a split-second decision and crashed and burned and _survived_! He was willing to accept the pain, Roger's anger, yes, even the paralysis as the price for proving to himself that there could be something to land on after a leap of faith. He might still never be what he and Mello should have been together, but he could act in the moment when absolutely required: he had swerved in time to avoid the car that nearly hit him. And in his irrational, drug-fogged haze, he felt exonerated, as though the excruciating pain was burning away the guilt of the Florence case, and the sentence of never walking again was penance to repay Mello's sacrifice.

Later, of course, Near had felt fairly ridiculous about all those thoughts and blamed them on the morphine. And if he still felt as though a burden of guilt had been lifted from his shoulders by the trial, he'd never admit it even to himself.

Near _understands_, on some level, why Tesla is acting out. He may never have been particularly good with people, but he reads enough to be able to figure out that it's probably a bit frustrating for a teenage girl who's accustomed to being surrounded by her peers to be suddenly cooped up in HQ with only an old man, an older man, and an even older man for company. He doesn't recall that he ever had that kind of pent-up energy at her age, but then again, in those wind- and adrenaline-charged months after Florence….

Understanding doesn't make him any less angry about it though and so while he's not anywhere near shouting, his knuckles are tight and his voice controlled. The almost-finished praying mantis is on the desk, and not in his hands. If he tries to work on it right now, he might break it.

"In the future, you will request clearance from myself or Watari before taking such reckless actions."

"It turned out perfectly," Tesla argues. She's pacing in a tight circle, something she usually does when a witness or law enforcement agent is being irrational. "I successfully apprehended the perpetrator."

"Regardless. In the future you will allow the police to do that part of the job, as that is _their_ job."

"Why?" the young woman demands. Her voice has not registered at a shout yet either. They're competing for frigid control. "Have I not proven myself? Haven't I proven by now that I can take care of myself?" There's no desperation in her tone, but it's in there somewhere, in the tense line of her back and sharp stride.

"That is irrelevant. It was a needless risk," Near grits.

Tesla snaps. Whirling on him, her hair a frazzle of righteous, tangled fury, she snarls, "Says the man who crashed a motorcycle into a road barrier at 80 kph!"

She turns her back on him and stomps out of the room, heading for the stairs instead of the elevator just to hammer it home.

"Just tell her you were worried about her," Roger wheezes when Near relates the argument to him later, at the hospital.

"That is beside the point, Roger. She will not see that she is being illogical. Why has she not learned from my mistakes? I have seen that she can be eminently reasonable and yet she uses my own youthful folly as an excuse for hers!" He can't pace like Tess can, and so instead he taps the arms of the chair testily.

Roger chuckles, a laugh like dead leaves blown along a concrete sidewalk. Near frowns. "I do not see what is so amusing, Roger."

"Ahhh, I did not expect you would," the old man says, and at Near's scowl explains, "I do believe there is some curse to the effect of wishing on your children the same parenting experience they put you through."

He finds the notion that Tesla could on any level be considered his child disturbing, but saying so would undermine other aspects of Roger's statement that Near thinks it would be wrong and perhaps hurtful to refute, so he says nothing.

_New Year's Day, 2031_

The doctor leaves him at the door, murmuring that Near can page him if he's needed, and hurrying off to get some real work done.

Roger looks terrible, Near thinks, worse, even, than yesterday, when he had looked worse than the day before, and the day before that. Every day the old man defeats his expectations of what the human body is capable of, if the mind within pushes hard enough. He wheels himself as close as he can without jarring the bed with his chair.

The retired Watari's eyes crack open wearily, but a small smile spreads across his mouth when he sees his visitor. "Near, my boy."

"Roger," he answers, and suddenly he is very tired too, and reluctant to say what he's decided he has to say today. It's been going on far too long; his old caretaker has been wasting away for weeks now, stubbornly refusing to die against the predictions of all the doctors, and Near is 97% certain he knows what has been holding him back.

"I brought you something," Near says instead, leaning down to draw a bundle of tissue paper from the side pocket of his chair. Delicately unwrapping the protective layers of tissue, he carefully places the finished carving in Roger's open hand. Frail fingers close around it, bringing it up to the old man's faded eyes. He squints at it, turning it over and examining it.

"_Sphodromantis viridis_," Roger mumbles approvingly. "And very accurate, too. You've been doing your research."

The air seems to gel in Near's lungs so he simply nods mutely, as Roger's hand drops to the covers again.

"No Tess today," he observes.

"No," says Near. "She's at headquarters. Working."

"By herself?"

"She is capable."

"How generous of you," Roger comments, wheezing a ragged chuckle and settling back into his pillow.

"She has started talking to me again." Though no doubt, Near thinks dryly, he'll get another dose of the silent treatment after today.

"Good, good."

He's starting to get worn out by the effort of talking and listening already, Near can see it, and he briefly casts back in his memory to try and recall if there was ever a time that Roger did not strike him as old and tired. He thought he was prepared for this. He's certainly too old to be clutching an oblique promise made over twenty years ago like a child whose teddy bear is being taken away. Near says,

"Roger, do you know what day it is?"

"It's New Year's Day." Roger's voice is paper-thin, barely audible over the beeping of the heart monitor.

"Yes, the New Year," Near echoes. His old caretaker says nothing, just regards him tiredly, so he presses on, "I'm forty today, by House reckoning."

"Happy New Year, Near."

It's not the point at all, and Near frowns a little, ducking his head down. "And you've been there, all that time. Just as you said you would."

Roger sighs, a long, weary sigh like dusty cobwebs and bone-dry exhaustion. "Your memory never fails to surprise me, young man."

"I'm really not a young man anymore, Roger."

"True enough."

Near's hands are usually cold, but today Roger's are colder.

"I know you're tired," Near says, softly, because otherwise his voice might shake, and he doesn't want Roger to worry about him. Because he's fine, really, he's been proven wrong, the world is not all cold plastic and empty promises, Roger's point has been made and it's selfish to act in any way that will make Roger think he has to suffer any longer. "It's alright for you to go to sleep and rest," and he almost can't say it, but he reminds himself of Florence and he finishes, "Father."

The old man's fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around his own before relaxing.

"Roger is dead," Tesla surmises when he returns.

"Yes."

"Are you going to start collecting poisonous beetles now?" she asks, her hand stilling so that a blotch of ink spreads across the paper where the nib rests unmoving against the paper. "Or sky-diving, perhaps? Bullfighting?"

Near settles back a little in the chair, reflexively attempting to stretch his legs, allowing the automatic spike of frustration at their lack of response to settle before he replies. It's not a smart remark. There's that hint of disapproval in her voice, but she wouldn't say anything at all for mere disapproval. Tesla is worried.

"Origami, perhaps," he says, when she finally turns her head to not quite look at him.

"Hm."

Near clears his throat, feeling strangely awkward. He probably wouldn't say so if Roger were still around to say such things for him, but he's not. "Tesla, though I am confident that you have the capability to take on the title, I did not take you on at this time because I intended to abandon you to it. I'll be around a long while yet."

"Well," Tesla says, but she rolls over toward clean paper and starts scribbling out a new drawing. Near leans forward to peer at it. Three small figures battle a dragon, the scaly wings unfurling rapidly under her pen. "Alright then."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Well, tbh still not sure how I feel about this...but at least it's done. Thanks to my sister for helping me work out the biggest blocknot in the whole mess. :)<strong>


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